


any way you want it

by uumiho



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bondage, Fail sex, Flash Fic, Other, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4171932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumiho/pseuds/uumiho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small, humorous collection of (quasi) smutty flashfics based on a hilarious AO3 tag prompt generator.</p><p>1. Dave/Karkat | Unsexy Underwater Frottage<br/>2. Rose/Kanaya | Brief Vampire Bondage<br/>3. Dirk/Jake | Softcore Vehicular Manpain<br/>4. Karkat/Kanaya (pale) | Strictly Platonic Garden Smut<br/>5. Dave/Karkat | Soulful Dream Cockwarming (sequel to Unsexy Underwater Frottage)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dave/Karkat | Unsexy Underwater Frottage

**Author's Note:**

> [This generator](http://generatorland.com/usergenerator.aspx?id=9094) is just about the best thing ever, and I couldn't get my brain out of the homestuck gutter, so I used the results as prompts and well... this happened.

The toilet in the main bathroom leaks sometimes. It's not a problem unless their roommate doesn't catch it, which is usually the case. That's not the shittiest part of living in this apartment (ha, ha) but when the water seeps through the wall shared by their bedroom, it becomes a problem bigger than soggy carpet.

Karkat scowls at the ceiling. While it _is_ Tony's apartment, he doesn't understand why he has to play Call of Duty so goddamn loudly. Add the screaming from his friends over the cam, and the screaming of his friends in the living room, and well. It's kind of ruining date night.

Which doesn't mean Dave isn't trying his damndest.

The pressure of Dave's junk rutting against his should feel nice, but all Karkat can focus on is the lube crusting in his pubes. He's still wearing his sweatshirt and Dave didn't feel like pushing his jeans any further than his knees, so there's fabric chafing against his skin that distracts from Dave's warm breath in the crook of his neck.

“Don't kill steal, you fuckin' fag!” The walls here aren't that thin, but the exclamation isn't even muffled. Karkat's nose scrunches; he closes his eyes in an attempt to shut out the world, including the dingy, cracked ceiling, which unsurprisingly is doing nothing for his libido. If only the FPS enthusiast outside knew that just one wall over, two dudes were literally rubbing dicks together, ideally until orgasm. Karkat isn't too sure about the last part, but he focuses on Dave's stubborn enthusiasm and resists the urge to itch flakes of dry lube from his crotch.

Dave's mouth finds his skin and he sucks just above his collarbone, hips circling determinedly. Karkat grunts, arches his back off the dingy floor futon. He's saving up for a new one with a frame. Just a couple more weeks.

He likes the idea of fucking on a clean mattress more than he likes the actual literal fucking that's going on right now, but it does the job and he lets out a watery groan, rocking his hips up to meet Dave's. The background noise is almost like a really grating, obnoxious, horribly offensive lullaby. Almost. On a technicality. His fingers twist through his own hair, tugging at unruly curls. His eyes peek open, glancing over Dave's shoulder; the clock says it's almost two AM, so maybe the screaming will stop soon. Maybe someone will call the cops. Not that he can stay up to enjoy the silence with his boyfriend—Karkat has work in the morning.

Dave mumbles something and Karkat grumbles a wordless response, spreading his knees and bouncing his hips on the tired futon like it'll help with the orgasm he's probably not going to get. His fingers fall from his hair, land on the bed beside his thigh, nails digging into the fabric.

 _Squish_.

“What,” he says.

“What?” asks Dave, lifting his head.

Karkat looks down, pressing his hand against the futon again. A small layer of water wells up before being absorbed back into the material. He jerks his hand back and looks toward the wall, also spying the inch or so of water coating their carpet, along with everything they had the bad sense to abandon on the floor, including his pants. And his wallet. And one of his textbooks.

“Are you fucking serious,” Karkat growls. He bets it was the slur-spewing jackass. He's exactly the type of person to not notice water streaming from the base of a running toilet. He's also the type to make so much noise that it would be impossible to hear said toilet continuing to run. And leak.

“I was fucking you, actually,” Dave responds, brow furrowing.

Groaning, Karkat pushes his boyfriend off of him, grabbing a dry pair of boxers that were fortunately hanging on the arm of their computer chair. “Not anymore,” he grumbles, yanking them on and ignoring the squelch of wet carpet beneath his feet.

“Don't kill anyone,” says Dave, tugging his jeans up over his wilting erection and finding the knees damp.

“No promises,” Karkat says, and throws the door open.


	2. Rose/Kanaya | Brief Vampire Bondage

“Hold still,” instructs Rose. After her history of knitting, she kind of thought this would be easier. Rope is just like yarn, but bigger, and shibari is just like knitting a person into a cute little decorative cozy, except with your hands instead of needles. Current events in perspective, Rose thinks keeping the needles and losing the rope might have been a better plan overall.

“I didn't move,” Kanaya responds, her elbows twitching.

Rose frowns. “I'm not arguing this.” How did the knot go again? Complicated stitch techniques never seemed this difficult. The fox goes into the hole and over the log and around the bend, et cetera. But she messes up the tie anyway and purses her lips as she undoes the last five minutes of hapless struggling, trying to piece the design back together without having to restart entirely. The diagrams in the book seem to skip a critical step and Rose cannot seem to figure out what she's missing.

“There's nothing to argue,” says Kanaya, twitching again. Rose doesn't acknowledge it. Kanaya is silent for several seconds, but only just so. “You said you knew what you were doing.”

“I do,” insists Rose, eyes narrowing. “I just need you to stop distracting me.”

Kanaya heaves a sigh, which makes Rose fumble the rope again. “It's been thirty minutes, Rose.”

“Perfection takes time,” she responds. How do these two ends meet? She twists the rope together, huffs, then undoes it, then redoes it. It still doesn't look right but she leaves it, continuing on past Kanaya's smooth, flat bottom.

“Isn't the point for me to be restrained? I can still move my arms.”

“You said you weren't moving.”

“I didn't,” Kanaya says calmly, “which doesn't mean that I _can't_.”

Rose pulls the rope ends as tight as possible, making Kanaya's taut skin bulge out. There's not much on her undead-thin frame, but the rope digs into what's there anyway. Kanaya shifts, trying to escape the sensation. “Stop--”

“No,” she interrupts. “I'm exercising veto rights.”

The last half hour of frustration and toil falls into ruin as Kanaya wiggles her way toward freedom, tugging at the bonds. “Kanaya!” Rose exclaims in reprimand, trying to snatch back the ends before they disappear. She only manages to catch one of them.

Her back hits the cushioned surface of an overstuffed chair, and Kanaya hovers above her, glowing brightly, her skin white with an eerie green tint. Kanaya has yanked one arm free of the loose binding and uses her manicured claws to free the other one, sawing neatly through the silken rope. The end still in Rose's grasp is twisted around her wrists with inhuman quickness and just as rapidly looped around the back of her neck, pulling her arms up to her chest. Kanaya's fingers are light around the knot that blooms against her sternum, collaring and binding Rose in seconds.

Rose tugs at the rope experimentally. It doesn't budge. The instructional book is face-down, useless on the floor as Kanaya kicks off the remainder of the rope. “That wasn't entirely fair,” Rose says, resisting the desire to pout.

Kanaya kneels before her, head nearly level with Rose's own. “Some of the undead near my hive secreted a toxin that was harmful to my plants. I had to subdue and relocate them before extermination was possible.”

“So you're saying that you're some sort of zombie hunting cowgirl bondage expert.”

The thin smile on Kanaya's lips spreads to expose the points of her fangs. “In as many words, I suppose,” she agrees benevolently.

“I'm sorry,” says Rose, fidgeting her hands in the improvised but secure harness. “Zombie hunting, bondage expert, cowgirl _vampire_.”

Kanaya laughs, smiling wider as she leans in toward her matesprit. “Yes. That.”


	3. Dirk/Jake | Softcore Vehicular Manpain

Jake gets a bike. It lacks pedals, and chains, and a dorky-yet-endearing bell for alerting drivers to his presence. It has, instead, a helmet compartment under the leather seat and tiny built-in blinkers, a tinny horn and a motor that growls so loud it wakes you up when he leaves for work in the morning. You could have gotten a beat-up one for half the price and fixed it up yourself, but Jake bought this one new and hasn't allowed you to lay as much as a finger on it.

You don't care. You're fine. You go on with life as usual.

Except you don't, because the bike is ruining your fucking life.

It starts with such a small change. “Upkeep is a doozy, good chap!” Jake says, dropping a quick kiss on your cheek before he disappears into the garage.

But when every inch of the machine has been oiled, wiped, tuned, and tweaked, he pops in with grease on his shorts and on his face, grinning as he explains, “Gonna take the ol' girl for a spin. Be back in a tic!” He is not back in a tic. He's gone for two hours, and then he comes home, kisses you again, and lays down for a short nap.

You refuse to look desperate so you don’t let yourself join him, and so you don't see him until he goes to bed for real because you took your dinner in your workshop.

Jake finds plenty of reasons why he has to spend more time with the bike, cleaning it, modifying it, improving it, riding it to clear his mind. He talks about getting another one for rougher terrain, like a dirtbike. You dig your nails into your palms and look for a screwdriver that fell off your desk. Jake disappears because there was a knock at the door and he thinks that it's the decals he ordered.

You jack off alone in the shower and sleep with your back to him and feel hurt when he doesn't seem to notice.

“Heyyy,” says Roxy, leaning closer to the webcam and smacking her gum. You avoid looking at your laptop screen, frowning instead at your latest robot—a whimsical design that would be perfect at delivering a pound of sugar to someone's gas tank without leaving any fingerprints. She knows you're listening, so she keeps talking. “Y'know, DiStri, it might be like, way easier to just tell him you're feeling neglected 'n' stuff.”

You shrug, ready to be prodded into some noncommittal comment when the side door bursts open and you look up. You built your workshop to be in full view of the garage, plus the side and back doors to the house. The security cameras hooked up just about everywhere take care of everything else, but you kind of like the good old fashioned kind of supervision. Machines can be tricked too easily.

Jake is wearing a tanktop and shorts, and the sun glistens on his broad, muscular shoulders. His hair is wet like he's fresh out of the shower, and when he bends over to pick the hose off the grass, you grow a bit tight in your trousers. The jean shorts are criminally small, several inches shorter than his usual fare and curved around his ass like they were put there by a benevolent god. You swallow. “Dirk?” asks Roxy, tapping on the screen. You subtly turn the volume down.

Your one rival in love sits in the driveway, looking pristine and perfect, but Jake turns on the hose anyway. He starts filling up a bucket, humming off-tune as it froths with soap. The suds slosh over the lip of the bucket when he plunges a rag into the water. They stick to his forearm, wet the toe of his boot, and run in rivulets down his thigh when he squeezes the rag out, accidentally dripping on himself. Jake looks like an Adonis in jorts, damp and toned as he starts rubbing the cloth over the bike's surface.

He bends back over to return the rag to the water and you almost faint thinking of slipping out from your shop to press against him with your hips, against those shorts tight enough that you bet you'd feel his balls through the material, fingers hooking through his belt to pull him closer to your swelling cock.

Jake straightens and rubs the rag back over the frame, lips moving to form words you can't hear.

“Sorry Rox,” you say, turning back to your robot with only a short glance at the screen. “Got a little distracted.” It's decided, then. You are going to _kill_ that bike.


	4. Karkat/Kanaya (pale) | Strictly Platonic Garden Smut

“Why did you stop?” Kanaya is wrist-deep in dark, fragrant earth, patting around the base of a small flowering bush. A few feet away, Karkat is turning red on the stone loveseat bench. When he fails to respond, Kanaya straightens her back, wiping her hands off on the rag set next to her knees. Karkat is almost as vibrant as the red peonies framing the brick under the bench, and Kanaya raises her eyebrows. “Are you quite alright?”

“Yes,” he grunts, his face crumpling as he hunches over the book in his lap.

Cleaning a stray smear of dirt from her cheek, Kanaya presses, “I’d like to hear what happens next, then.”

“Uh.”

“Yes?”

Karkat swallows. “It’s kind of fucking… inappropriate,” he says haltingly.

If her archly eyebrows were not already high up on her forehead, Kanaya would surely have raised them more. “Am I supposed to believe that appropriateness is suddenly a concern for you?”

He sighs melodramatically, waving a hand in the air. “Not _that_ kind of appropriate, jackass, but like. Uh. Sexy?”

Kanaya blinks. “Am I meant to care?”  
  
“Our relationship isn’t _like_ that,” Karkat stresses, having summoned the gall to look _astonished_. Kanaya considers laughing, but ultimately decides against it.

“Well, no,” she agrees. “Moirallegiance usually isn’t.”

“ _So_ —”

“But.” She’s ready to talk over him, but Karkat silences himself easily enough, though he’s still clutching the book tightly in his fingers and probably wrinkling the pages with nervous sweat. Adorable. Also: disgusting. “Reading something is hardly sharing a pail, and I cannot read myself lest I get dirt on the pages, now can I?” He grunts something, shifting and looking back down at the book. “So, indulge me.” Karkat pauses, but with a reluctant nod he uncoils and smooths the pages, scanning for his place. “I believe,” Kanaya says, “you were at the part where her matesprit curls her—”

“—long, elfin fingers around the midblood’s taut buttock, squeezing as if the gesture alone could convey her lascivious intent. Their ample rumblespheres meet with one heaving breath; one they share as their dark lips part, each woman opening herself up to the other’s swelling passion.”

Kanaya returns to her work, digging out a hole for a little flower at the base of the bush, though not so close that it would struggle for the sun’s light. Despite his hesitance, Karkat is quite the narrator. He’s very enthusiastic and never lacks intensity, which Kanaya appreciates.

Although he has not gotten less red in the cheeks, Karkat continues in his task of relaying the tale. “Tahima rakes her strong, citrine claws through her matesprit’s gown, rending it from her supple frame, laying her flesh bare to both Tahima’s predatory eyes and the soft glow of the moons. ‘Surrender to me, Ahsoon,’ she growls, sinking her teeth into the woman’s full sphere, drawing the taste of her emerald blood into her mouth. The flavour is exquisite and powerful; overcome, Tahima thrusts her thigh between the midblood’s legs, pressing up at her apex.”  Kanaya’s hands pause in the soil.

“‘Take me now,’ pants Ahsoon, plump lips open and gasping, begging to be ravished. ‘My body is yours alone.’ With the impassioned invocation, Tahima loses all control, rocking her toned hips into the other woman’s and—” Karkat pauses, licking his finger so that he can turn the page. “—and rubbing her muscular thigh against the midblood’s core, burning hot for her, aching, already clenching and wet with desire.”

“Karkat,” Kanaya says, quietly.

“‘I can’t wait,’ murmurs Tahima. ‘I must have you _now_ ,’ and with a growl, she rips her pants from her body and thrusts her half uncoiled bulge against—”

“ _Karkat_.”

“What?”

Kanaya clears her throat, uncurling her fingers from the divots they’ve left in the dirt. “Much as I’m enjoying this,” she says, not without a small hitch, “perhaps we should skip to the next scene.”

“Oh,” Karkat says, glancing up at her, then back down to the book. “Yeah, maybe.” To his credit, he doesn’t gloat about being right. Kanaya would have stuffed his face with dirt if he had.


	5. Dave/Karkat | Soulful Dream Cockwarming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to ["Unsexy Underwater Frottage.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4171932/chapters/9418692)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reward drabble for [mostlyharmless](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlyharmless/pseuds/mostlyharmless) for catching the hidden reference in [tank time](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5268143/chapters/12156170)! (which if you like UUF or this flashfic, you'll probably love so check it out)
> 
> thanks for reading!

Spending a month sleeping on Dave’s chest sounds more romantic than it actually is. At least on their dingy floor futon Karkat could roll over and not end up on the ground. Alas, Nepeta and Equius’ couch is only just slightly wider than the average couch, which is still not enough for them to comfortably sleep side-by-side.

‘Wait, you two are gay _?_ ’

‘Uhm, fuck yes we are. Did you genuinely think two guys would just move into the same room with only one bed because they fucking _felt_ like it?’

Those weren’t the last words Karkat had said to Tony before he kicked them out, but they’re the last ones he remembers before the full-on rage blackout. While heated words had been expected from the altercation, considering Karkat’s already pitiful sex life was being interfered upon, Karkat hadn’t expected to actually _lose his apartment_ , much less because their troglodyte roommate _didn’t realize they were a couple_.

Dave has a lot of facebook connections. Dave got them a place to crash until they could find something better.

The futon was beyond repair. It was left, still soggy, in the room when they cleared out.

Things could have been worse. They could have been assaulted or killed, or be homeless, or worse yet, still bound to the horrible reality of tuning out gamerboys screaming obscenities every time they tried to have sex. After this month Karkat would almost take it, because it just so happens that Nepeta and Equius live in a studio, and Nepeta can see the couch clearly from the top of their bunk beds.

If Karkat had known that an unsatisfying grinding session would be the last time he was able to fuck his boyfriend for an entire month he might have just ignored the flooding until he was finished.

Equius pulls some strings. Dave might have sucked someone’s dick, too, but Karkat tries to keep that possibility in the ‘shit he’s just imagining’ zone. There’s a dude in the complex who’s moving out; he has most of his stuff already in his new place and is just waiting for some things to be taken care of before he switches over. They’re slotted to move in once he’s gone, but Equius gets him to agree to let them move in early and just crash on their extremely-comfortable-if-there’s-only-one-person-sleeping couch for the last couple days.

They don’t have much stuff. Their room at Tony’s was pretty empty, but with space constrictions they had to sell or leave behind a fraction of even that. It takes less than two hours to get all their stuff inside, with the exception of Karkat’s desk, which Nepeta and Equius will be helping them get down the stairs.

It’s… empty. It’s not too small, but it’s one room, with a chunk cut out for the bathroom and the kitchenette jammed right against that single wall, and everything else is open. There’s not even a personal closet, just a small storage space right near the front door. Their things are all on boxes since they lost the few items of furniture they had, and instead of the bed and frame Karkat was saving up to buy, they will temporarily be sleeping on cots (donated by Aradia and Jade) because that money went to the damn security deposit.

Staring at the meagre offerings of the complete set up, Karkat is overcome by intense disappointment. Everything he was working for is all sorts of fucked up, and while this situation has potential for improval, considering it got them out of an actively _bad_ environment, it’s so hard to see the future he wants in this empty room.

And then arms wrap around his midsection and he has face parts jabbing into the crook of his neck. “Hey,” Karkat says, faintly aware of Dave having closed the door behind them, securing them in the room with the vast butt-fucking nothingness.

Dave shifts enough to smooch him behind the ear. “Sup.” Karkat shrugs, looking at his feet. “You look bummed,” Dave observes.

“Just at the situation.”

“It’ll get better. The studio’s officially ours on Monday.”

“Mm.”

“I’ll go hella on the Craigslist-fu and get us some furniture.”

“Mm.”

“We’ll find a bedframe as top priority. John might be able to find us a new mattress, since I know you get paranoid about bed bugs.”

“It’s literally the last thing we need, okay.”

Kissing him again, Dave says, “I know. Which is why I’m not givin’ you shit for it.”

“Thanks for meeting the bare minimum of decency, I guess,” Karkat says, but his heart isn’t in it, and Dave doesn’t seem bothered anyway, what with him pressing his forehead against Karkat’s temple and nuzzling him gently. “It just seems like we’re starting over from square one,” Karkat explains, gesturing at the room. “We have even less than we fucking did going into Tony’s place and none of the money we were saving to improve _that_ situation and it’s gonna take for-fucking-ever to save up again, and get used to the new bus route to work—”

“I’ll drive you,” Dave offers, squeezing his arms tighter.

“—and I feel like my options are shit and I don’t want to sleep on a fucking cot, not even being able to _touch_ my boyfriend, which is somehow a step down from having to touch him _too much_. I can’t catch a fucking break.”

“We’ll get there,” says Dave, who seems really… suspiciously unflappable right now. Like he’s usually pretty chill but he seems goddamn _cheery_ , which pisses Karkat off all of fifteen seconds before he realizes Dave’s managed to insinuate his hands under his shirt and is now running his fingers lightly up his ribcage.

… it’s been an entire goddamn month. “We don’t even have a bed,” Karkat says, suddenly a little short for breath, though that might have something to do with Dave having graduated to placing soft, fluttery kisses up and down the column of his neck. His fingers press closer under his shirt, still creeping higher up his torso until he can flatten his palms against Karkat’s pectorals, massaging the skin in wide circles.

“Just pretend we’ve only been dating for three months and are still adventurous instead of dead inside and forced to schedule when we have sex otherwise we just won’t have any.”

“Oh god,” Karkat says, tilting his head to give Dave room as his hands get ahold of Dave’s pants, fisting in the material. Dave takes advantage of his newly opened posture to rub his thumbs over each of Karkat’s nipples, nipping at his skin at the same time. “We were _not_ that bad,” Karkat continues stubbornly.

Dave hums. “We were close.” He somehow pulls Karkat’s collar down with one of the hands inside his shirt and sucks at the newly bared skin.

“Don’t leave a mark,” Karkat mumbles reluctantly, “My job—” 

“I know, babe.” His free hand starts moving down again, and Karkat’s body responds with vested interest. He trembles in Dave’s arms, full of pent up energy that isn’t sure how it’s going to expel itself yet but is getting some very enticing ideas. Dave’s thumb makes it to Karkat’s waistband, and his fingertips do a good job of charting a smooth path across the line of his hips, mouth moving in rhythm. 

He keeps moving his fingers just shy of the now-straining bulge in Karkat’s pants, which turns out optimistically for Dave when Karkat gets impatient, whirls in his arms, and slams him back against the door. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever had the bad sense to date,” Karkat announces before kissing him.

Dave’s hands end up in his hair for his trouble, and when Karkat grinds his crotch against Dave’s front he finds that his boyfriend is similarly happy to be alone with him at last. Karkat gets two extremely unladylike handfuls of Dave’s ass and does some very indelicate things with leverage and proximity that leave Dave showing exactly how desperate he is for an end to the reign of unwilling celibacy. They bite at each other’s mouths, both keyed up and neither willing to assume the ‘taking it’ position without a fight.

The problem is that they aren’t really the same height, or even close to the same height, so humping against a wall is a bit less satisfying than it could be. Dave’s dick is somewhere near Karkat’s stomach, which is a bit of a raw deal for him—not that Karkat cares from his position rutting against Dave’s thigh without a single complaint.

He cares even less when Dave dips down and catches him under the thighs, lifting him until their hips are level and Karkat’s legs are fitted around his waist so sweetly, arms around his neck giving him even more leverage than he had before. Dave groans when Karkat squirms, taking immediate advantage of the new position. Karkat exploits his temporary weakness to yank his head back and leave the angriest mark he can on limited time, just under the line of Dave’s jaw. He pulls back, swollen lips pulled into a smirk.

The second problem arises a couple seconds later when Dave almost loses his grip, because Dave is well enough in shape but Karkat is _heavy_. “If you drop me—” Karkat warns.

“Fuck off,” Dave says, adjusting his hold while counterbalancing against the door, “I got this.”

Karkat doesn’t make it easy for him. He has his tongue getting intimate with the shell of Dave’s ear when Dave steps off to wherever he’s about to go, which had better not be one of the fucking cots because Karkat is not ready to see his sex life stoop that low just yet. His butt ends up on something hard and he starts to lean back but Dave catches his head before he can. “Careful,” he says, and Karkat finally takes his mouth away from Dave’s skin long enough to observe his surroundings.

“...we haven’t even lived here an hour. We won’t even be the official residents until Monday.”

“Look, counters can be washed.”

“We’re supposed to prepare food here, Dave. What if we have guests.”

“No one has to know,” Dave snickers, and Karkat doesn’t argue too much more when Dave starts kissing him again, hands slipping down his knees to push his thighs apart. This position poses unique problems of its own, again in Karkat’s favour because he’s the one getting his dick fondled when Dave still can’t quite get his junk to meet Karkat’s at the right angle. He half sniggers into Dave’s mouth, because he’s a bad person and likes watching his boyfriend struggle.

He stops laughing when Dave mumbles, “fuck it,” and with one last, lingering kiss, rips away from Karkat’s mouth and goes to his knees.

There’s little technique or finesse in the way he fumbles with the fastenings of Karkat’s jeans, but before Karkat has time to bitch Dave already has his dick out and is rubbing his length in his hand as he licks his lips in preparation. Karkat ends up scooting his hips as close to the edge of the counter as he can, grabbing the handle on one of the shelves behind him for support while his only limb not focused on keeping himself stable ends up in Dave’s hair, giving him a not-so-patient tug.

“You’re a menace,” Dave gasps, and Karkat hums not because he agrees, but because Dave’s tongue finally got its shit together and is coursing up the underside of his cock in a hot, wet line.

Usually Karkat is preoccupied with the dramantics: closing his eyes, thrashing, screaming, etc, but 1.) he doesn’t have room for any of that shit, and 2.) after a month of not even being able to touch himself, the visual is well worth the sacrifice. He watches Dave under his eyelashes, pleased that Dave has already gotten rid of the shades and is doing that looking-up-at-you-while-mouthing-at-your-cock which always looks terrible in porn but is somehow searingly hot when it’s happening in realtime.

Even though it’s kinda Dave’s thing more than his, Karkat finds himself reaching into his pocket to wiggle out his phone, because this is prime jack-off material and it’d be a shame to let the moment go to waste. Dave totally eats it up, staring up with his lips wet and his tongue doing his dirty work while Karkat fiddles with the camera app. The shots Karkat gets aren’t amazing but at least one or two look serviceable enough so he sets his phone down, satisfied.

Then he has to make a mental note that Dave _really_ digs the exhibitionism thing because a couple seconds later Karkat is back repping the histrionics because his entire length disappears down Dave’s throat and he is not in any way fucking around.

Karkat’s knuckles go pale from how hard he’s clutching the cabinet handle, rocking his hips as best he can without completely falling off the counter, legs spread as far as they can go to give Dave plenty of room and even if it’s not the most ideal condition he’s working well with what he’s got, swallowing Karkat as far as he can go and waiting until Karkat is squirming for more before he pulls back, goes down again, picks up speed…

Dave doesn’t pace himself. Karkat doesn’t take long before he’s a hop skip and a jump from orgasm. He keens, squirming uncontrollably until Dave pins both of his knees to the counter, continuing without hands which is even hotter, somehow, watching him fumble with just lips and tongue. “That’s right, baby,” Dave mumbles against the skin of his cock, glancing up at him again. “C’mon, Kat, I want you to come down my throat, that’s my boy.” Karkat just about dies.

He’s making so much noise he doesn’t hear, at first, when the door opens, but upon opening his eyes notices immediately that their privacy has been breeched. He can see the white door over Dave’s shoulder—Dave doesn’t seem to notice, which, ahhoilnkg—and Karkat has half a second to hope that it just fell open on its own until he hears Nepeta’s voice.

Oh, god.

The attempt he makes to inform Dave that there’s someone _literally walking in the goddamn apartment_ turns into a garbled shout as Dave sucks hard down his length and Karkat is hit with the most terrified orgasm of his life.

Later, if he cares to (which he doesn’t, actually) he’ll remember Dave trying to keep him from falling off the counter while pretending that he didn’t just cough up half the semen he was intending to swallow when he first realized something was amiss behind him. He will try not to remember Nepeta peeking through her fingers as Equius faints from pure scandalized horror. He will absolutely refuse to remember Dave bent over the kitchen sink washing shame off his face and chin while Karkat sits on the kitchen floor trying to jam himself back into pants and loudly begging god for a swift and sudden death.

They do, eventually, get Karkat’s desk where it’s supposed to be, although it has to be done without Equius’ help and Nepeta won’t stop smirking at him the entire time. They do, also, eventually give in and fuck on one of the cots, once Karkat has made sure the door is properly locked this time. Dave makes good on his promise to trawl Craigslist for furniture, and while nothing he got matches, the empty studio fills up until it’s tolerable to be in, finally.

“Good news,” Dave says, flopping down onto his cot beside Karkat’s. “Rose found a good deal on a full size mattress. We’ll have to put it on the floor again, but I have a few good leads on a bedframe.” Karkat hums, staring at his phone with his back to Dave. He ignores the rustling behind him, which turns out to be Dave stretching his body across the space between the cots and leaning against Karkat’s back to snoop at what he’s doing. He’s just deleting a bunch of pictures from his photo gallery, and doesn’t even bother pretending to hide his screen. “Still feel like shit about the apartment?”

“Mmno,” Karkat says, still scrolling lazily. “It’s not my dream house by any fucking stretch, but it sure beats fucking on a wet futon while your homophobic roommate ruins any chances of—”

“Holy shit,” says Dave, pulling himself further onto Karkat’s cot. “I totally forgot you took those pictures. Damn, I look hot.” Karkat presses his lips together, because he doesn’t actually disagree even though he’s not going to give Dave the satisfaction of knowing that. “I’ve never wanted to jerk off to a picture of my own face before,” Dave says, because of course he does.

Karkat turns off his phone and shoves it under his pillow. “Get your own.”

“Dude, it’s a picture of me.”

“You heard what I said.”

“This isn’t fair.”

“The fact that I’m sleeping on a cot also isn’t fair, and yet here we are.”

“Kaaaat.”

Karkat hides a smile, pulling his blanket over his shoulder like he’s going to just sleep through Dave’s whining. He lets his eyes skim over their slightly-less-despairingly-empty studio apartment, and makes a contemplative sound. It’s not everything he ever wanted, but it’s… closer, enough so that he can feel content. He decides two things for certain: one, he’s stubborn enough to make a life here, even if it’s going to take some finagling, and two…

He’s so jacking off to this picture as soon as Dave falls asleep.


End file.
